An Unwanted Reunion
by Glastea
Summary: Scott tells us about meeting someone he'd never wanted to see again. Not for the fainthearted.


**An Unwanted Reunion**

**A/N: **I had this idea last night, and it didn't take long to type into a coherent tale. Because I always tend to use a slightly twisted version of Scott's comic background instead of the one he was given by the movie writers, I came up with this scenario: 'what would happen if Scott and Jack (his foster father) met up again, in less than fortuitous circumstances?' The results are here.

Please note that all my knowledge of Jack is internet based- I've never been fortunate enough to come across the X-Men comics he was included in. I'm also aware that including a chop shop is simply for the conventions of this fic.

Be warned, this is not meant to be a pleasant read.

**0-0-0-0-0**

I knew that I never wanted to see Jack Winters again. Purely because it was his fault I was so messed up as a teenager. It was his fault that I lived on the streets for two years, but also, perhaps worst of all, it was his fault that I tried to kill myself at least twice before I ran away from the chop shop, his business and his abusive behaviour.

I think that's enough reasons to hate someone, isn't it? I know that Lady Luck had a vendetta against me until I was at least seventeen, but that's why I don't believe in her. If you don't believe in demons, they will stop haunting you. I don't need any more monsters in my closet.

But then, when chance- not bad luck- caused us to meet for a second time, I wasn't prepared properly. He was, though. He lured us into a trap, and we fell straight into it.

It was a distress call. The Professor told us that he'd discovered a new mutant in an abusive environment, and that they would need our help. We went during the middle of the night, with the rain pouring into the concrete jungle. I knew where we were- how could I not? I know the Nebraskan streets better than most, especially this part of the city. No one in his or her right mind would come here.

We found the warehouse in the middle of the area. It used to be a chop shop, with two cars in a night to go out the next morning, fully transformed into new vehicles. I learnt my trade as a grease monkey inside the breezeblock building, and I knew all the exits, escape routes- everything you did need to plan and execute a successful rescue. It still didn't prepare me for what was coming.

I told Jean and Storm to find the child- get them out, into the Blackbird, and to be careful- they would be fragile, possibly very badly hurt. Jean had a quick mental search, and she and Ro made their way to the back of the turgid, rotting structure, to the trapdoor to the basement. There were rooms above, but Jack still had the same mindset, apparently. Keep the kid in a pit, and watch them break and bend to your will. He tried it with me. I nearly succumbed, stopped myself, and then left his care. I felt a street corner would be better than the hell I was living in. I tend to think, years later, that I should have got out earlier, but better late than never.

As the pair disappeared down into the cellars, Jack's gang came into the open, led by the man himself (who consequently stood to one side when the action began.) It was Logan and I against twenty of them- ten to one. Not pretty odds, but I'd been in worse. I knew half these people, and I knew their weaknesses- but I'd only been up against them with fists before. I had an advantage now. What I wasn't expecting, however, was every one of those sons of bitches to have a flick knife on them. And when they all come at you at once, standard disarming technique doesn't apply.

I could see Jack was planning something by the look on his face, and the fact that he'd sent his bulkier men to attack me, rather than Logan. I should have thought then. But I didn't.

Yes, two of them were down, unconscious, before they knew what had happened, but eight with knives versus one with a visor and optic blasts still isn't great. I had to resort to hand to hand fighting to get rid of them- and I may be good, but not good enough to take on a group of men who fight to survive, get credit with their boss and even just for the fun of it. Especially when I had the biggest on top of me, and I'd been scared stiff of them before. Ten years may have passed, but ultimately, they still had the upper hand. Even when I'd stunned everyone else, and the odds were slightly fairer.

I wasn't bleeding much at that point (our uniforms have several protective layers in them), but as soon as it was two on one and easier to retaliate, Jack gave a new command to his 'soldiers'. On my side of things, anyway- as far as I could see, he'd unleashed another set of gang members onto Wolverine, like a battle commander. Sending troops in to die, just as any battle commander would. Except for me. I couldn't send someone I knew onto a suicide mission.

"Well, well, Scottie," he said, looking at me straight on. His goons had a hold on me that wasn't going to relinquish any time soon, no matter how much I struggled, so I could do nothing about my predicament. "Looks like you came back for more, doesn't it?" As he said it, he pulled off a glove, to reveal his hand. Still as I remembered it.

Jack was 'the Living Diamond', as he dubbed himself. He's a mutant. He's the first one I ever met- although artificial, not genetic.

He was involved with an accident at a power station involving radiation, and the skin that covers his arms was transformed into diamond. That part of him was indestructible and, sadly, his knuckles formed very sharp points. I had a horrible feeling I knew what was coming next. Hoping that Jean and Storm had got themselves out with our mark, and that the poor kid wasn't covered with the injuries I was going to get, and clenching my jaw, I waited for the inevitable. And, of course, it came.

Straight to the jaw- one punch and I was already bleeding. He had the equivalent of knuckle-dusters, and being held still meant I could do nothing but not make a noise and hope and pray he took my visor off at some point, or that it slipped, and it would all be over. I had to stop him, before he started doing anything worse. Sadly, it took less than a minute before most of my face was bleeding- I could feel that my nose was broken and the cuts hurt like hell, but I couldn't show it. From previous experience, that would only make it worse.

I was trying to think of how I could get out it now, before anything really bad happened. Every tactical manoeuvre, every piece of self-defence I had ever learnt didn't seem to apply- not with two henchmen holding me fast and stopping me from falling to the ground, who were at least twice my weight and four inches taller than me, and not planning to let go. Meanwhile, my attacker was taunting me, telling me tales of how others who'd left him had suffered painful deaths, and how mine was going to be even worse.

I was just hoping that Wolverine was actually going to bother to attempt a rescue, instead of stare gormlessly or whatever he was doing.

"I don't think we're going to let your friend live, Scottie," Jack told me, brushing blood off his fist as someone would remove crumbs from a tablecloth. "And you, pretty-boy, will be wishing you're dead by the time I'm finished with you." Pretty-boy. How I hated that name. Given to me by one of the others that worked in the chop-shop, because, of all things, my cheekbones. Hell, when Jack heard, he used it as an insult, a taunt, and any other form of mockery he could think of.

Then, he got a knife out. It was a heavy-duty version of the flick knives his band had possessed, straight edge, very sharp. Did he need any more blood out of me to feel appeased?

He tested the edge of it and then traced it along my jaw line almost lovingly, making a shallow slit to make the point. I was willing Logan to get his sorry ass over to me and try to help, but I could hear the scuffle ensuing behind us, and knew it wasn't going to happen any time soon. I had no one, but I'd rather have had no one than have Jean see me in that position. I don't think I'd ever been that injured in a mission before.

"Glad to see you remember the rules, Scottie. Shall we see how you do with something sticking into you?" And, before I knew it, he'd slit the seams of my uniform jacket- which weren't protected at all. The 'game' began again- he knew where to embed his blade without killing me, or damaging any of my internal organs, which was an improvement from before, but made me realise what he wanted to do. Somehow, he'd tracked me down, just to get revenge and see me die in agony. Great. Remind me to never leave the mansion again.

And, then, the jackpot. Or not, in some senses.

"I think we need to lose some of your good looks, don't we? There's no point in you having them now." He ran a finger down my now bruised and bloodied cheek, and then he pulled my visor off. I kept my eyes shut, and then said the first thing to him that I had for 10 years or so.

"Nice knowing you." I opened my eyes. A gaping bloody hole emerged in his torso, blowing out the wall behind, but I didn't care then. Turning to the now shocked men beside me, eyes shut again; I smirked, as if I'd enjoyed the whole experience. They let go and stumbled away, only to be the last two victims of Logan's claws. Meanwhile, I had to do some ungainly scrabbling to find my visor, which was covered in even more blood then it had been before, unsurprisingly. Then, I kept going. Out of the warehouse, searching for any sign of the Blackbird, trying not to show any signs of pain. Pain is weakness, as I was once told.

Of course, you can't disguise the blood that was pouring all over the place, or the goose pimples I had because I'd lost my jacket, and hadn't been wearing anything underneath. Logan stood beside me, looked me up and down, whistled in surprise and what I hope was shock and we waited together for Jean and Ororo to come and pick us up. Which they did, luckily, or I probably would have frozen. It was the depths of winter- and standing in Nebraska without a top on is not the cleverest thing to do.

Jean began to fuss over me as soon as she saw me, which really wasn't surprising, considering, but I cared more about the boy we'd picked up than getting myself stitched up, although he was in less of a state than I was, admittedly. I satisfied myself with a shirt and Jean made me take a large bundle of cotton wool to stem my nosebleed somewhat. I sat in the seat with my head between my knees to stop myself from passing out, and the hour and a half or so it took us to get back hurt like hell, until I eventually lost consciousness about 25 minutes from the Institute.

It's only now, days later, that it's all come flooding back. I killed a man that night. It doesn't matter that he physically abused two teenagers, or that he was a criminal. I still killed him. And that makes me just as bad.

It may have been self-defence, but the idea that I took a life still disgusts me. I'd never killed anyone intentionally before- by accident when I manifested, yes, but I keep thinking that there had to be another way to get out of the situation. I could have kicked him and sent him spiralling into unconsciousness- then let Logan do the rest, seeing as he doesn't seem to have a conscience as slaughtering is concerned. I could have even stopped him before he got the knife out, but I didn't think. I was even willing him to remove my visor- wanting him to die. It's sickening. Obscene.

Yes, pain may be a weakness- but is not feeling it a strength?


End file.
